


The Hufflepuff

by Northumbrian



Series: Nineteen Years and Beyond [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Leaky Cauldron, Loss, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:04:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5727325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northumbrian/pseuds/Northumbrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannah Abbott? She's no one special, is she? She would be the first to admit that. This is the story of an ordinary girl who lived in extraordinary times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loyal

**1\. Loyal**

Hannah could not focus on any of the departing faces, she could barely see. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and a film of tears distorted her vision. She blinked uncomprehendingly at the departing mourners and simply allowed their words to wash over her.

‘You have my deepest sympathy, you poor girl.’

‘Tragic, absolutely tragic.’

‘She was a fine woman.’

‘It’s a terrible loss.’

‘So sad, if there’s anything we can do...’

‘We’re thinking of you.’

‘If you need anything, anything at all…’

‘Your Uncle Peter and I are so sorry.’

The commiserating voices, handshakes, hugs, and kisses seemed to be endless—as did the lies.

Uncle Peter had hated Geraldine Abbott; he’d called Hannah’s mother an interfering busybody, and one Christmas—when Hannah was nine—Peter Abbott had called his sister-in-law a Mudblood. Hannah could still remember the embarrassing silence which had followed that outburst. Her Uncle Peter and his wife had never again made a Christmas visit. In fact, her father had hardly spoken to his brother since the incident; this was the first time Peter Abbott and his wife had visited the farm in eight years.

They were saying the right words, what was expected of them, but how could their sympathy possibly be genuine?

As she watched her aunt and uncle leave, Hannah felt as though she was two people. The Hannah inhabiting her body was a wreck. That girl was tear-stained and emotional; she had a slavering beast of grief feasting on her innards, tearing them out and leaving her empty and in agony. The other Hannah hovered above the scene, watching with serene detachment. That Hannah was calmly assessing the best and worst aspects of her mam and dad’s relatives and friends. Uncle Peter was a … was a …

How could she be so uncharitable at her own mother’s funeral?

Hannah’s father was squeezing her shoulder so tightly that it hurt. She didn’t protest. She was worried that if he released her, he would fall to the floor.

Geraldine Abbott’s husband and her daughter were two playing cards: while they were leaning against each other, they could stand, but move one even slightly, and both would fall. They had been like this since Hannah had returned home from Hogwarts. It seemed to the detached Hannah that her flesh and blood counterpart had been crying from the moment she’d been summoned to the Headmaster’s office and told the dreadful news.

Hannah pulled herself together and tried to concentrate on the few words of comfort which had made sense to her. ‘She was a credit to Hufflepuff House, as are you, Miss Abbott,’ the Headmaster had said softly, and it seemed to Hannah that he did so with genuine sorrow. ‘She was just, and loyal to the cause she espoused, the cause your friend Mr Potter espouses. I am certain that the girl I knew, little Geraldine Nelson—the coal-man’s daughter—was very proud of you. I cannot rid you of your grief, Miss Abbott, no magic can do that, I can only tell you this: grief is the feeling we get when our love becomes homeless, try to remember that.’

Lost in the memory of her Headmaster’s words, it took Hannah a few moments to realise that the procession of friends and relatives had finally come to an end. The departure of Uncle Peter and Aunty Mary meant that for the first time since the funeral four hours earlier, Hannah and her father were alone.

‘I’ll see if there’s any tea left in the pot, shall I?’ Hannah’s father said after Peter and Mary Abbott Disapparated.

‘Let’s just sit in the yard, Dad,’ Hannah suggested, unable to face another cup of tea. She loudly blew her nose on the large handkerchief her father had given her.

Arms around each other, Hannah and her father stepped outside and into the farmyard. The autumnal wind was cold, and it slapped Hannah’s black robes against her legs as it swirled around the yard. She shivered, but revelled in the sensation. Any feeling, any discomfort, was a distraction from the ache inside. Perhaps the chill wind could blow the pain from her.

Hannah looked out across the farmyard. Hangingrigg Flatt was her home; it had always been her home. But now, without her mother’s bright and cheerful presence, it was different.

The isolated farmhouse sat high up on the western side of the Pennines. It was built, like most properties in the area, from the local red sandstone. Hangingrigg Flatt was a squat building whose ponderous bulk rested solidly on the landscape it inhabited. The house lay in the flat bottom of a narrow valley. To the east, almost close enough to touch, the disconcertingly regular and almost unnatural looking conical mound of Morton Pike thrust up above the horizon. Behind the Pike lay Morton fell, the rough, undulating moorland where her father’s sheep grazed. To the north, the otherwise unblemished green of the rolling hills was disfigured by Tongue Scar, a bleak and rocky cliff. This was Hannah’s world, her home, her refuge, and now it had changed.

Hannah dried her eyes, blinked the final few tears from them, sat down on the weatherworn wooden bench next to the front door and gazed in the other direction. Downhill to the west, the town of Appleby-in-Westmoreland nestled somnolently the Eden valley. Further west, beyond the town, the Cumbrian hills thrust themselves into the sky; Shap and Bampton dominated the foreground, in the distance—far beyond those nearest hills—Helvellyn stood shrouded in clouds.

‘Your mam loved this seat, this view,’ her father observed. ‘She used to say, “We live in a beautiful world”.’

‘She was wrong, Dad,’ said Hannah sharply. ‘In a beautiful world, she’d be here to enjoy the view with us!’

‘Oh, my poor little Hannah,’ was all her father said.

He pointed at clouds, at a honking flight of geese, at the woods west of Appleby where the Arrows’ Quidditch stadium lay hidden from Muggle view, and he hugged her. They sat in sorrowful silence, and Hannah remembered a life now lost, a presence no longer present.

There was a hole in her life.

Hannah sat silently alongside her father and thought about her mother. Susan Bones had been very sympathetic. Susan had lost her aunt over the summer, and she had, apparently, been very close to Amelia Bones. But it wasn’t only the loss which hurt Hannah; there was the question of why?

Amelia Bones was Head of Magical Law Enforcement; she was a member of the Wizengamot; she was powerful and important. Geraldine Abbott was a farmer’s wife who wrote the occasional article for _Witch Weekly._ She wasn’t rich or powerful; she was, however, Muggleborn. Was that it; was this simply a hate crime? Had some prejudiced pureblood committed this dreadful act simply because he (or she) hated Mudbloods? Whoever had committed the murder had used the Killing Curse, and left the Dark Mark at the scene.

It had happened in a small square at the end of Knockturn Alley, of all places. What on earth had her mam, her ordinary little mam, been doing in Knockturn Alley? Uncle Peter had whispered that she must have been up to something and that if she’d been a Pureblood, she’d have known better than to go into the area. That was nonsense, of course. Most of the residents of Knockturn Alley _were_ Purebloods.

The Aurors were investigating. Auror Webb had visited; he had assured Hannah and her father that he was doing everything that he could.

‘But we’re very stretched at the moment,’ Webb had admitted, his soft voice tinged with sadness. ‘We’ve never been popular in Knockturn Alley, and no one we’ve interviewed has seen anything. They’re lying, of course, but they are more scared of the killer than they are of us. We won’t give up. I promise that we won’t give up.’

But if the Aurors couldn’t find out what had happened, could anyone? Hannah looked out over the countryside and wondered what to do. The autumn sky was a dark blue, and the clouds were white and unthreatening, but for the wizarding world a storm was coming. The darkness was rising again, but no one seemed to want to do anything about it. No one, that is, except Harry Potter.

Last year, for the first time in her life, Hannah had broken school rules. True, most of those rules had been Professor Umbridge’s ridiculous “Educational Decrees”, but even so, being a member of Dumbledore’s Army had been both exciting and educational. She had been a little disappointed when, at the beginning of the new school year, there had no mention of continuing the organisation.

Ernie Macmillan hadn’t been surprised. On the first day of term, he’d assured her that everything would soon return to normal. “There’s no reason to continue with Dumbledore’s Army. Old Fudge is gone, and Minister Scrimgeour is already beginning to get everything under control,” he’d said. But less than three weeks later, Hannah’s mother had been murdered.

Ernie was a nice boy, but he could be so gullible sometimes.

‘When do you need to go back to school?’ Richard Abbott asked his daughter, finally breaking his silence and interrupting her musings.

‘I’m not going back, Dad. I only went back because Mam insisted,’ said Hannah. ‘I only got five OWLs, remember: Acceptables in Charms, Potions and Astronomy; and Exceeds Expectations in Herbology and Defence against the Dark Arts. I was going to re-take my Transfiguration OWL, but honestly, I might as well look for a job. You need me here! You need the extra money. You always said that we couldn’t survive without the money Mam made from her writing. And who will do your cooking, and the laundry? You’re useless at household spells; you know that you are. You can’t cook, and you break plates when you’re supposed to be washing them.’

‘Transfiguration...’ her father began.

‘…is a very useful subject. I know, Dad. I can do it. I just panicked during the exam; I’m not really that bad, and Professor McGonagall was happy to take me back. But you need me here, and so long as I can actually do the spells, it doesn’t matter whether or not I have actually passed an exam, does it?’

‘You won’t get a good job if you don’t do well in your NEWTs, Hannah.’ Her father made a vague attempt to persuade her, but his heart wasn’t in it.

‘I’ll get experience, Dad, and money. Maybe not much, but I’m not afraid of hard work.’

‘What will that boyfriend of yours think?’

‘Boyfriend?’ Hannah spluttered.

‘That boy … Ernie,’ her father said.

For the first time since she’d left school, Hannah laughed. Then, realising what she was doing, she strangled her laughter and fell into an embarrassed silence. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ she mumbled. ‘But Ernie isn’t my boyfriend; he’s just a boy who’s my friend.’

‘Aye, well, you won’t be here forever; some young lad will steal you away from me, and then there’ll just be me and the hills and the livestock.’ Her father shrugged. ‘You do what you think best, Hannah. I’d best get up to the top pasture, check on the flock. You could check the coop for eggs for me, and feed the turkeys. The beasts won’t feed themselves and world won’t stop, even if we think it should.’

‘I’ll do that, and I’ll tidy the house up while you’re gone, Dad,’ said Hannah. ‘We’ll manage, won’t we?’

‘We’ll have to,’ her father said sadly, and with that, he strode over to the barn, grabbed his broom and flew up the valley.

* * *

After five weeks, the pain of her loss had become a dull ache in her heart and a flutter in her stomach. There was only the occasional unexpected bout of tears. They were triggered by the strangest of things: her mother’s favourite cup; being unable to remember the recipe for scones, which her mother had taught her when she was very young; catching herself scolding the turkeys with the same words—“you won’t be so happy at Christmas”—her mother had used. These were the things which brought greif.

Working hard helped, so Hannah and her father found a new routine. Rising early was essential; there were cows to be milked, sheep to be tended, chickens and turkeys to be fed. Hannah dealt with the household chores, the fowl and the milking. When her jobs were done, while her father was out tending the beasts in the fields, Hannah would sit in the study reading her mother’s articles.

She was looking through a bundle of notes marked “unpaid labour” when there was a knock on the door. Hannah picked up her wand from the desk and strode to the front door.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked.

‘It’s Auror Webb,’ a low voice said. ‘I visited you several weeks ago.’

‘What did you drink when you were here?’ Hannah asked.

‘Nothing,’ the voice said. ‘You offered me tea, Miss Abbott, but I declined your kind offer.’

Hannah opened the door. Auror Webb glanced at her apologetically. He was a shabby-looking man in middle-age; thin-faced with untidy grey hair, he affected a permanently downcast expression. Webb’s cool dark brown eyes, however, darted everywhere. The Auror stood in an untidy slouch and was either unaware or unconcerned about the dejected and ineffectual air he presented.

‘Sorry, Auror Webb, you can’t be too careful these days,’ said Hannah apologetically. ‘Please, come in.’

‘Indeed not.’ Webb nodded as he stepped over the threshold and followed Hannah into the farmhouse kitchen. ‘It’s a sensible precaution in these difficult times. Is your father here?’

‘He’s up on the north pasture,’ said Hannah. ‘Do you have news?’

Auror Webb somehow managed to look even more dejected. ‘You’re under-age, Miss Abbott. I can only tell your father; I’m sorry.’

Hannah nodded sadly. She put the kettle onto the stove. ‘I swear Dad can hear a kettle boiling from anywhere on the farm. If I make a pot of tea, he’ll be here; would you like a cup?’

‘No, thank you, Miss Abbott,’ said Webb.

Hannah was pouring herself a cup when her father arrived.

‘Auror Webb has something to tell us, Dad,’ Hannah said as she poured tea into her father’s large, blue and white striped mug.

‘You’ve found out who did it?’ said Richard Abbott. He stared hopefully at the Auror.

‘I’m afraid not,’ the Auror said sadly. ‘I’m sorry, but I came here to tell you that I am being reassigned. I have no leads, and we’ve had two more deaths. I will keep the file open, but we are living in dark times, and…’

‘…and the death of a farmer’s wife isn’t important enough for you,’ shouted Hannah, and she burst into tears.

‘Every unexplained death is important,’ said Webb firmly. Suddenly, his apparent ineffectualness was replaced by a firmly professional attitude. ‘You may not believe me, Miss Abbott, but I like this no more than you do. The Auror Office is stretched beyond capacity. I’m under strict instructions to assure “all citizens” that the Minister has everything under control, and all is well.’ He stared at Hannah and her father. ‘I have now given you that assurance, although I know it isn’t true. I cannot overemphasise how serious things are at the Ministry. I’ve been ordered to other duties. I am truly sorry, Mr Abbott, Miss Abbott.’

Hannah glowered at the man through a veil of tears. There seemed to be tears in his eyes too.

‘I came here to tell you in person,’ Webb said. ‘I thought it was only right to let you know, but I’m very busy; I really must leave.’

‘I’ll see you to the door,’ Hannah said, drying her tears.

As he stepped out into the yard, Webb turned to Hannah. ‘I am truly sorry for your loss,’ he told her.

‘Where was my mother found?’ Hannah asked. ‘All I know is that she was discovered in a square at the end of Knockturn Alley, but where?’

‘She was discovered outside a little pub called “The Ducking Stool”, in Knowe Place,’ Webb said; he spelt out the word Knowe for her. ‘It’s an unpleasant corner of an unpleasant street. Please don’t go there, Miss Abbott.’

Hannah simply nodded. ‘Thank you for letting us know,’ she said.


	2. Safe

**2\. Safe**

It was November, and the sky over Hangingrigg Flatt was as grey as Welsh slate. Towards the horizon, over the Eden Valley and beyond, the grey shaded to an almost night-like black.

As she took the letters from their beaks, Hannah gave both of the post owls an owl treat. They hooted their thanks and then took to the skies. She watched them as they flew northwards down the valley, towards the rainstorm which was creeping up towards the farm. Soon, it would be raining.

Hannah followed the bird’s flight as they closed on the storm. The owls became tiny specks and finally vanished behind a curtain of rain. It was not until they finally disappeared from view that she looked down at the two envelopes she held. Both were addressed to:

_Miss H Abbott_  
Hangingrigg Flatt  
Morton  
Cumbria 

Although each was sealed with wax, they were very diferent. One envelope was a lilac colour, and sealed with purple wax; the other an official-looking brown parchment with red seal. Hurrying inside, Hannah closed the kitchen window against the approaching storm. She opened the lilac envelope first.

_Dear Miss Abbott,_

_Thank you for your enquiry. While Tansy’s Tea Rooms are not currently looking for any permanent employees, as Christmas approaches, we will be taking on temporary staff for a six week period (mid-November to December). I would be grateful if you could attend the premises at 10:00 a.m. on Saturday next for an interview._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Miss Tansy Hogg_  
Proprietor  
Tansy’s Tea Rooms 

Hannah stifled her squeal of delight. Her father was oblivious. He was busily shovelling down his breakfast and staring out of the window at the rapidly blackening sky.

‘I’d best get the sheep down from the tops,’ Her father said gruffly. Hannah simply nodded. She wasn’t certain that he was talking to her. Every day, over breakfast he planned aloud, telling her what he intended to do during his day. But if she ever mentioned his plans to him, he always seemed surprised to discover that she knew what he would be doing.

Hannah broke the seal on the second letter and pulled out the parchment.

_Dear Miss Abbott,_

_Thank you for your enquiry. May I, on behalf of Witch Weekly, express our condolences to you and your family._

_While your late mother submitted several articles to Witch Weekly over the years, she was not a regular contributor and she did not submit a new article before her death. My assistant, Miss C Boyle, has checked our files and there are no unpublished articles from your mother._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Chelsea Boyle_  
p.p. Toby Radford  
Commissioning Editor  
Witch Weekly 

Frowning, Hannah replaced the second letter in its envelope and dropped it into her apron pocket. She reset her face to what she hoped was a look of excitement and waved the first letter at her father.

‘I might have found myself a job, Dad,’ she said cautiously. ‘I wrote to all the cafés in Diagon Alley and a place called Tansy’s Tea Rooms want me to go for an interview on Saturday.’

‘Job?’ her father sounded bewildered.

‘I told you that I was looking for work, Dad, remember?’ said Hannah. ‘We need to get a few extra Galleons coming in. Christmas is always a lean time, you know that. I know we’ll make some money when we sell the turkeys, but after that, there won’t be much cash coming in until after lambing.’

‘Saturday?’ her father asked. ‘Where?’

‘Diagon Alley,’ Hannah said patiently. As she suspected, he hadn’t been listening. She showed her father the letter. ‘It’s almost opposite the Witch Weekly offices.’

Her father stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘There’s a lot to do here, Hannah…’

‘There isn’t that much, Dad. I’m sure that I can work and look after you, and we really do need the money,’ she reminded him. ‘It’s only an interview,’ she added consolingly. ‘I might not even get the job.’

* * *

Tansy Hogg was a stout woman in her middle years. She nodded approvingly when Hannah finished explaining her situation.

‘Thank you, Hannah,’ she said. ‘Normally, I take on two girls over Christmas …’

Miss Hogg hesitated and looked around nervously. It was almost as though she expected You-know-who to appear from underneath a table. She lowered her voice. ‘But … with the way things have been recently … well … it’s not just me … every business in Diagon Alley is suffering. I expect that things will pick up over the next few weeks, but if they don’t, you’ll be working fewer hours. I pay by the hour. What would you say to seven Sickles an hour?’

Hannah hesitated. ‘I’d like more,’ she began.

‘I’m sure you would,’ said Miss Hogg, suddenly brusque and business-like. ‘I pay my two permanent members of staff more, but you’re only sixteen, fresh from school, and completely inexperienced. Seven Sickles an hour, plus a share of the tips; take it or leave it.’

Hannah didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll take it; thank you, Miss Hogg,’ she said.

‘Sensible girl.’ Tansy Hogg smiled briefly. ‘I have two permanent waitresses; Glynis has asked for a few days holiday next week, so can you start on Monday?’

‘Yes, definitely,’ said Hannah eagerly.

‘Good, come with me and I’ll introduce you to Mac and Glynis.’

Hannah followed Tansy Hogg from the kitchen and out into the café.

‘Mac, this is Hannah Abbott; she’ll be starting the day after tomorrow,’ Miss Hogg announced. ‘Hannah, this is Maxine Stewart; she’s been with me for years.’ Maxine was a tall, sunken-cheeked woman whose lank mid-brown hair was escaping from her white lace waitress cap.

‘Hello, Hannah.’ Maxine nodded a curt greeting and gave Hannah a rather limp and ineffectual handshake.

‘Hello, Maxine,’ replied Hannah politely.

‘Everyone calls me Mac,’ the woman told her firmly. ‘We open at nine, Hannah. You’ll need to be here no later than half-past eight on your first day, as we’ll need to sort a uniform out for you. Excuse me.’

With that, Mac Stewart strode over to take an order from a middle-aged couple. The café was not full, but it was at its Saturday morning peak, and was bustling and busy.

The second waitress, Glynis Pine, was darker-haired and a lot shorter than Mac, she gave Hannah little more than a curt nod as she walked past with a laden tray.

‘Perhaps things are looking up,’ said Tansy hopefully as she surveyed the tables. ‘I’ll give you a week’s trial, Hannah, but if you’re not up to scratch...’

‘Thank you, Miss…’

‘Call me Tansy, dear. This is Tansy’s Tea Rooms, after all.’

‘Thank you, Tansy,’ Hannah said. ‘I’ll try not to disappoint you.’

She stepped out into the rain-swept street and looked across the road. She hesitated for a moment, but then strode across the street and walked into the offices of Witch Weekly.

A witch wearing vibrant pink robes looked up from the reception desk. The receptionist was in her twenties, and the automatic smile of greeting struggled to remain on her face as she assessed her visitor. The pink-robed witch’s expression was easy to read; she had instantly dismissed Hannah as unimportant. Nevertheless, her professionalism took over, and the bland smile returned. She looked at Hannah curiously.

‘Welcome to Witch Weekly, how may I help you?’ the reception witch asked politely. From her tone, however, she might as well have asked “what on earth do you want, little girl?”

‘I was wondering whether I could speak to Mr Radford,’ said Hannah.

‘Why would _you_ want to speak to Mr Radford?’ The witch’s expression shifted from one of barely disguised distain to one of curiosity.

‘My mother used to write for him: Geraldine Abbott,’ said Hannah.

The witch looked at Hannah with renewed interest.

‘Wait here,’ she ordered. She slipped through the only other door, and Hannah looked idly around the room. A large pile of old issues of Witch Weekly lay on a table. Hannah began to idly flick through them, looking for articles by her mother. She soon found one.

It was a “farmer’s wife” article typical of the ones her mother had submitted. The article finished, however, with a note.

_Farm workers often complain about their lot in life. Their long hours of hard work for little pay go unrecognised. But they do, at least see some reward for their labours. Some farmers, it seems, begrudge paying their workers anything at all._

_Coming soon – Slave Labour, by Geraldine Abbott._

Hannah checked the date of the magazine—mid-August, a month before her mother’s murder. She hastily stuffed the magazine into her handbag.

The witch returned. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Abbott, but Mr Radford is very busy. If you write to his secretary, Miss Boyle, she’ll try to arrange an appointment for you. Thank you.’

With that, the witch sat back down at her desk and began to work, pointedly ignoring her visitor. Hannah hesitated for a few seconds, and then decided that pleading would achieve nothing.

‘Thank you,’ she told the disinterested reception witch.

As she walked disconsolately along Diagon Alley towards the Leaky Cauldron, Hannah passed the narrow entrance to Knockturn Alley. She stopped, drew her cloak tightly about her, pulled her hood forward and—summoning every last iota of courage she possessed—she stepped into that unfamiliar and dark-reputed street.

Knockturn Alley was surprisingly crowded; dozens of dark-cloaked individuals strode through the street. Hannah marched determinedly through the crowds, trying to ignore the fact that her heart was trying to batter its way free from her chest. Keeping her head down, Hannah hurried onwards. As she passed a shop doorway a pale young woman with lustrous, raven-black hair strode rapidly from the premises and collided with her.

‘Sorry,’ Hannah murmured. The woman who was smaller and more slender than Hannah opened her pale blue eyes wide, surprised by the apology. As Hannah stepped aside, the young woman smiled, revealing sharply pointed canines. A vampire! Hannah gasped in surprise and hurried past the creature. Once she’d gone a little further down the street, Hannah risked a look over her shoulder. To her horror, the vampire seemed to be following. Hannah quickened her pace. _There are no side-streets,_ Hannah reassured herself; _she’s not following me, she simply lives in Knockturn Alley. This is the only way she can go._

Once she had passed Borgin and Burkes, and the cluster of small shops opposite, the crowds began to thin. Hannah again looked back. To her relief, the vampire was nowhere to be seen. Breathing more easily, but keeping her wand tightly grasped in her hand, she continued down the alley. As the street became narrower, the crowds vanished. Hannah pressed on.

Ahead, an elderly witch was keenly watching Hannah from a darkened doorway. Hannah was about to approach the ugly old lady, to ask directions to Knowe Place, when she smelled an unpleasant odour. Suddenly alert, she glanced at the old woman’s hands. The crone’s iron black fingernails confirmed Hannah’s suspicions; this was no witch, it was a hag. Hannah hurried past, extremely grateful that she’d paid attention during Professor Lupin’s lessons.

Ahead, the alley forked. Hannah had no idea which way to go but, worried by her encounters with Dark creatures, she did not risk stopping. She knew that, despite her fear, she must appear at home in this place; she must look as though she knew where she was going. Without hesitation, Hannah turned left. Knockturn Alley took a short dog-leg and then opened out into a small cobbled square. The only other exit was through a narrow arched passage several yards away on her right.

With a rapidly beating heart, Hannah walked into the centre of the square and looked around. It was deserted, but not silent. Hannah could hear voices, hammering and even animal noises coming from the buildings surrounding the square.

A sign affixed to the wall where she’d entered the square told her that she had arrived. This was Knowe Place. A large stone and timber building stood to the left of entrance into Knockturn Alley. It was “J. X. Parkinson & Sons, Warehouse” according to the freshly painted sign. The warehouse filled that corner of the square. Hannah continued to turn slowly clockwise.

On the side next to the warehouse stood several ramshackle tenements, each with upper floors leaning precariously forward into the square. Despite the continuing drizzle, washing was hanging from several windows. On the next side, opposite the entrance from Knockturn Alley, were three shops; Kanker’s Creature Corner, Hare and Todd’s Butchers, and Halstead Farm Supplies. At right angles to Halstead Farm supplies, to the left of the arched exit, a wooden sign hung on creaking, rusty, chains from a wooden pole. The sign was weatherworn and faded, but Hannah could just make out the words “Ducking Stool” in the flaking paint. The final corner was filled with more tenements.

Hannah looked down at the cobbles in front of the pub. This was the place where her mother had been killed. It was the place where no one had seen anything. As she again looked around the square, Hannah got the impression that it was certainly a place where—if you knew what was good for you—you _wouldn’t_ see anything. She looked up at the windows of the tenements, and then back down at the cobbles.

Keeping her wand hidden under her cloak, but gripping it tightly, Hannah examined the cobbles carefully. She was looking for a clue, looking for something, looking for anything. It was a dismal and run down place. Not at all the sort of place she would have expected her mother to visit. She shivered.

Hannah’s examination of the cobbles was stopped when a pair of worn and scuffed boots appeared in front of her.

‘Well, ’ello, darlin’. You a little girl lost, are you?’ a voice said. A large, weatherworn hand firmly gripped Hannah’s shoulder and she stifled a scream.

Hannah looked up into the man’s unshaven face; he was a tall, hard-featured wizard with greasy brown hair, and he suffered from halitosis.

‘I know exactly where I am,’ said Hannah. ‘But it’s time I was leaving. People … my boyfriend … is waiting for me. He’ll come looking.’ Hannah’s voice was panicked and pleading. The man sneered.

‘Not such a little girl, are you?’ the man asked, his eyes raking her figure. ‘And don’t lie about the boyfriend. He dun’t exist.’

‘ _He_ doesn’t. But keep your hands off her, dog; she’s mine!’ The musical, and very well-spoken, voice belonged to a woman, and it came from almost directly behind Hannah.

‘I don’t believe you, corpse!’ the man snarled. ‘I saw her first.’

‘The girl is leaving, Scabior; she’s leaving with me.’ The woman spoke with a quiet power and the man she’d called Scabior turned his gaze from Hannah and glared balefully over her shoulder at the newcomer.

Hannah took her chance. She thrust her wand under Scabior’s chin and shouted, _‘Stupefy’_

The effect astonished Hannah. Scabior flew into the air, thudded against the wall next to the inn sign, and slid to the ground in an untidy heap. In all her months of practice with the DA she’d never managed such a powerful Stunning spell.

Harry’s frequent words of advice drifted back to her. _“You need to mean it, Hannah. I know that Ernie is your friend, but you can’t hold back when you cast the spell. You can’t stun someone unless you really want to.”_ She finally knew what Harry had meant.

‘Come along, my dear, let’s leave,’ the woman said.

Hannah turned and looked gratefully at her saviour, only to discover that she was facing the smiling vampire. Hannah took one step backwards and stopped. She glanced back at the unconscious Scabior, heard the curious shouts from the pub and realised that she had little choice. She hastily followed the woman out from the square.

‘What’s your name, girl?’ the vampire asked. Hannah hesitated and gripped her wand tightly. ‘Don’t lie; I’ll know if you lie,’ the woman added.

‘Hannah, Hannah Abbott.’ She reluctantly parted with the information.

‘You have a strong heart, Hannah,’ the woman said softly as they strode back up Knockturn Alley. ‘And now it beats so fast that I can hear the blood rushing around your body.’ She chuckled. ‘And my words are making it move faster. You are frightened of me, just as you were frightened of the wolf.’

‘The wolf?’ Hannah queried; her mouth had been dry, now it was a desert.

‘Scabior is one of Greyback’s pack. They have joined with the Dark Lord, because he has promised them much. He promised my people much too, but I have known for a very long time that he lies. He has secrets, but he hides them well. And he lies to everyone, Hannah, everyone. He even lies to himself,’ the vampire said knowledgably. ‘I am—I have had many names—many of which I do not wish to share. You may call me Camelia. I am, as you have realised, a vampire. I have just saved your life, or at the very least, your chastity. You owe me a debt, girl, and one day, I will collect it.’

‘I could have dealt with him without your help,’ said Hannah stoutly.

‘Possibly, possibly not. Your stunning spell was impressive, but my distraction helped, did it not?’ Camelia said calmly. Hannah nodded grudgingly. The vampire was relaxed, calm, and had made no threatening moves, but Hannah remained on edge. They continued up the street in silence, Hannah keeping slightly behind the vampire.

‘Why did you help me?’ Hannah finally asked as they strode back up Knockturn Alley.

‘Why not? I am bored. When you bumped into me, you looked out of place and I could taste your fear, but you continued anyway. And you were polite, which amused me. Few people in Knockturn Alley have any manners, and I am old enough to appreciate good manners. I don’t think you believe me. What about this? For a while I let you see me, and then I hid from you. I was simply practicing stalking someone.’ Camelia stared into Hannah’s face and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Hannah Abbott, I will let you be. I haven’t tasted the blood of an unwilling victim for half-a-century. I would have let you examine those cobbles and depart. You would never have seen me, were it not for Scabior deciding that he liked the look of you. It was a relief to have something to do.’

‘You helped me simply because you were bored?’ Hannah asked.

‘Not entirely,’ Camelia admitted. ‘The werewolves are scum; they are nothing but beasts, and they work for the biggest beast of all! It amuses me to annoy them. But, what were you doing in Knowe Place? It is not safe.’

‘I know that now,’ Hannah admitted with a shiver. ‘But it’s where my mother was murdered. It happened almost seven weeks ago. Do you know what happened to her?’

‘No, but if it happened in Knowe Place, then the wolves will know, and so will the Parkinsons; they know everything that happens there. But I will give you a piece of advice, Hannah. Do not ask the werewolves, and do not ask the Parkinsons either, not unless you want to meet your mother beyond the veil. Now, here is Diagon Alley.’

Hannah looked up and realised that they’d already walked the entire length of the Knockturn Alley. When she turned back to look at Camelia, the vampire had gone. Hannah shivered and slowly made her way along Diagon Alley, towards the welcome site of the Leaky Cauldon.


	3. Boring

_3\. Boring_

By the middle of December, Hannah had settled into a routine. She rose early, made breakfast for herself and her father, and sandwiches for his lunch, and then prepared food for their evening meal. Once those jobs were done, she travelled by Floo to the café, arriving just time to help set up for opening time.

The pay was poor, but the tips were enough to provide a reasonable supplement. The work was easy: keep the tables clean and cleared, take the orders and get them right, and chat to the customers when they demanded it.

To her surprise, Hannah found that she enjoyed the work. The elderly witches were the best customers; they would dispense folk wisdom, tut at the behaviour of some of the “youngsters” and on occasion they would enquire about Hannah herself. She always told them the truth, and felt guilty about doing it. The admission that her mother had been killed and that she was working to help her father make ends meet almost invariably resulted in her receiving a good tip.

Some of the younger men, and occasionally some of the older ones, tried to flirt with her. It was a new experience for Hannah but her fellow waitresses, Mac Stewart and Glynis Pine, came to her assistance. By the end of her first week, Hannah knew more than enough ways to politely tell blokes that she wasn’t interested in them.

‘It’s harmless,’ Glynis had assured her. ‘In fact, more than half of them don’t mean anything by it. They would have no idea what to do if you said yes. Just be nice, make them laugh, and you’ll get a good tip.’ It was true.

Within a few weeks Hannah became accustomed to the peaks and troughs in the day. While she worked, she tried to observe the comings and goings at Witch Weekly. Despite several more attempts, she had been unable to contact Mr Radford. He was always too busy to see her and he didn’t reply to any of her letters.

It was a Wednesday when her luck changed. The café was more crowded than usual. Christmas was fast approaching, and every day seemed to be busier than the last, so Hannah was getting more and more shifts.

Hannah watched the two men slip out from the Witch Weekly offices. The moment they entered the café, she was ready. They sat at the only free table, a cramped alcove just behind the door. The older man was in his mid-twenties, bearded, and judging by his ring, he was married. His companion was spotty-faced and probably just out of his teens. He looked vaguely familiar to her, and Hannah wondered if he’d been in the same year as the Weasley twins.

‘Would you like a menu?’ asked Hannah, offering the printed cards to the two young men. ‘Or do you know what you want?’

‘Gabe knows what he wants, don’t you, Gabe?’ said the bearded man, grinning at his companion. ‘He’s never _ever_ wanted to come into a café before. Something must’ve changed in the past few weeks.’ The man he’d called Gabe blushed and glanced shyly at Hannah.

‘I’ll leave you to decide, shall I?’ asked Hannah.

‘I’ll have tea and a fruit scone please, Hannah,’ the spotty-faced man said. Hannah, who’d spent her schooldays trying to remain anonymous, cursed the fact that Tansy insisted that her staff all wear name badges. She decided to risk using his name too, despite the fact that Tansy preferred the staff to call customers “sir” or “madam”.

‘Certainly, Gabe. And what will you have, sir?’ Hannah asked the bearded man.

‘I’ll have the same,’ he told her. ‘I’m Dave, by the way. Gabe’s been admiring you from afar ever since you started here, but he’s always been too shy to come over and ask you out.’

Gabe garbled a denial, but his beetroot blush was enough to ensure that Hannah knew he was lying. Embarrassed and a little flustered by Dave’s words, she laughed nervously, uncertain what to say. Normally, she’d ask if they wanted anything else; experience had shown that, after the young men’s comments, that was the last thing she should say.

‘I’ll go and place your order,’ Hannah said, excusing herself and leaving the two men to whisper. She tried to collect her thoughts. While she was wondering what to do, she busied herself waiting on some of the other customers. Gabe watched her every move and it seemed to Hannah that he really did want to ask her out. By the time the two men’s order was ready she had made her decision, she returned to their table prepared to do whatever it took, within reason, to get into the Witch Weekly office.

‘My mum did some work for Witch Weekly,’ said Hannah as she placed the tea and scones in front of Dave and Gabe. She sent stuff to some guy called Toby Radford; d’you know him?’

‘Yeah, he deals with the freelance writing staff,’ said Gabe. ‘Who is your mum?’

‘Geraldine Abbott,’ replied Hannah.

Gabe’s face fell. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Hannah; I didn’t realise. I’m really sorry. Have the Aurors found out who did it?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Hannah admitted. ‘I think she was working on something before she died: a story about slave labour on farms. I’d really like to meet Mr Radford, to discuss Mum’s work.’

‘No problem,’ said Gabe. ‘When do you get a break? Just go across and ask at the reception desk. He’ll see you when he knows who you are.’

‘He won’t,’ Hannah said. ‘I’ve tried. I couldn’t get past reception. He was too busy to see me. I was told to write to his secretary. I did, five times! But I’ve never been able to get an appointment, he hasn’t even replied to me.’

‘That’s odd,’ said Dave, suddenly interested. ‘Why would he avoid you?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Hannah. She turned back to Gabe and smiled. He smiled back eagerly. ‘I get a twenty minute break at three o’clock; if I came over, could you get me in to see Mr Radford?’

‘No problem, Hannah, said Gabe enthusiastically. Dave cleared his throat noisily and glanced between Gabe and Hannah. Gabe looked bewildered for a moment, but quickly took the hint. ‘What time do you finish tonight? Would you like to go out somewhere? The Leaky Cauldron?’ Gabe asked. He was almost pleading.

‘Hannah!’ Mac hissed as she walked past. She nodded at another table.

‘I’ve got to go; I’ll think about it and let you know when you pay the bill,’ Hannah said. She hurried over to the table.

When she’d taken the new order, Hannah returned to the two Witch Weekly employees. Feeling that she owed him something, she nervously agreed to meet Gabe the following evening. Her reward was a beaming smile, and a generous tip.

At three o’clock, Hannah took off her apron and cap, left the café and hurried across the windy street to the Witch Weekly office. Gabe was standing in the foyer, waiting for her.

‘I’m Gabriel Willis; I didn’t tell you my full name,’ he said. With nervous formality, he held out a hand. Hannah smiled, and shook it. Gabe led her past the reception witch, who was watching them curiously. Hannah followed him upstairs, through a large office and past a rather startled, brown-haired secretary. Gabe knocked on an office door marked T Radford: Commissioning Editor, and walked straight in.

‘Hello, Toby, this is Hannah Abbott; she’s…’

‘She’s Geri Abbott’s daughter. I can see the resemblance. Please sit down, Hannah. What can I do for you?’ asked Radford.

‘I want to ask you about a story my mum was writing, Mr Radford,’ Hannah began. She hesitated, uncertain whether to continue in front of Gabe.

‘Please, call me Toby,’ said Radford. ‘Would you mind leaving us for a few minutes, Gabe?’ Gabriel Willis reluctantly left the room.

‘Yes, the story about a farmer who was using Imperiused Muggles as slave labour in his fields,’ Radford continued. ‘Do you have her research notes? Or, even better, have you come to deliver her final manuscript? If what she told me is true, the story could be worth a lot of money.’

‘I came to ask you if I could see the manuscript,’ Hannah told him. She squinted in confusion at the man. ‘She posted it to you on the day she died.’

‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken,’ said Radford apologetically.

‘I’m not,’ Hannah said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a receipt. ‘She sent it recorded delivery; it was signed for on the day she died, see?’

‘I didn’t sign for it,’ said Radford.

Hannah passed the receipt over to Radford. He looked at it in astonishment.

‘You didn’t, but your secretary did. C Boyle p.p. T Radford,’ said Hannah triumphantly. She watched Radford’s face crease in bewilderment. His confusion appeared genuine. Hannah realised what must have happened at the same moment that Radford himself did. Radford stood and strode to the door; Hannah followed closely behind.

‘Where’s Chelsea?’ Radford asked. The room fell silent.

‘She’s er, gone, Toby,’ said Gabe.

‘Gone? Gone where?’ demanded Radford.

‘Dunno.’ Gabe shrugged. ‘She asked me who I’d taken in to see you, and when I told her, she swore, grabbed her cloak, picked up her bag and left.’

Hannah ran from the office. She hitched up her robes and took the stairs four at a time, but when she reached the street, there was no sign of Chelsea Boyle. The witch in the foyer did not try to stop her as she re-entered the building. She trudged back upstairs to Radford’s office, determined not to cry.

‘My dear Miss Abbott,’ Radford began when she re-entered his office. ‘I can only apologise. I had no idea about this. I wish that you had contacted me sooner.’

‘I did,’ said Hannah bitterly. ‘I called in here, and I wrote to you. But…’

‘...unfortunately, all messages to me are relayed through my secretary,’ Radford completed the sentence for her. ‘Whatever your mother wrote is now gone, along with Chelsea.’

‘I can’t find any of her research. There was a note in her desk saying “Must see you, urgent. Bring your papers, usual place, usual time, M.L.” Have you heard of M.L.?’ Hannah opened her purse and showed Radford the note she’d found.

‘No, I’m sorry, Hannah, those initials mean nothing to me,’ said Radford. ‘I’m afraid that if you don’t have the notes and you don’t have the manuscript, then we have nothing.’

‘Could you tell me what you know, what Mum told you about the article?’

‘Not much: she told me that she was onto something, and that she’d have an exclusive for us. She said something about a farm shop and a woman from nowhere, and that’s all,’ Radford said.

Hannah cursed herself. She should never have tried to investigate herself. Now she’d ruined everything. She’d assumed that Mr Radford was avoiding her, but he hadn’t been. He hadn’t even seen her letters! She should have been more forceful.

Gabe insisted on making her a cup of tea and consoling her, and it was some time later when she finally left the Witch Weekly offices. She was no further forward. She had nothing more to go on. All she could do now was contact Auror Webb and tell him what she’d discovered. It wasn’t until she stepped out into Diagon Alley that she remembered that she was on a twenty minute break from work. She checked her watch. She’d been gone for over an hour.

She hurried across the street and into the café, where Tansy Hogg herself was waiting on tables. ‘Your break is twenty minutes, Hannah, not an hour,’ Tansy hissed. ‘Here are your wages, up to yesterday. Don’t bother coming back!’

‘But…’ Hannah began. Her protests were to no avail. Tansy refused to listen.

Hannah dejectedly returned her uniform and badge, and trudged back along Diagon Alley. She’d lost her job, but that didn’t bother her. She’d failed; her mother’s killer remained free and the only person who knew anything about it had fled. Was it Chelsea Boyle? Toby Radford thought that it was unlikely, but the young woman’s sudden disappearance meant that she must be guilty of something. As she walked, Hannah pondered everything she’d been told.

Her mother had written an article; Radford had been expecting it, but his secretary had intercepted it. The information was out there; it must be, because her mother had a source. All Hannah had to do was find the mysterious M.L. and work out why her mother had been in Knockturn Alley, in Knowe Place. Then Hannah remembered Radford’s words: “A woman from nowhere”. Perhaps Radford had misunderstood. Perhaps her mum had said “a woman from Knowe Place”.

Hannah again turned into Knockturn Alley. This time, she knew where to go. Wand in hand and wary of strangers, she strode along the street and into Knowe Place. She walked straight across to Halstead Farm Supplies, pushed the door open and entered. The grubby little room was cluttered with farming implements, sacks of grain, fertilisers and animal feed. Despite its urban location, it smelled strongly of farmyards.

‘Can I help you, dear?’ the elderly witch behind the counter asked.

‘I hope so. I need at least two sacks of good grain for my turkeys; I want them to be nice and fat for Christmas, Mrs Halstead,’ said Hannah.

‘Bless you,’ the old lady said. ‘I’m not Mrs Halstead; them boys never married, and never will, I reckon.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs…’

‘Lane, Mabel Lane,’ the woman said.

‘And I’m Hannah Abbott,’ said Hannah, astonished that her guess had been right; her mother had come here to meet M.L. ‘I believe that you knew my mother.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Mrs Lane said. Hannah stared at the woman. Mrs Lane looked confused. She seemed to be trying to remember.

‘Did you write this?’ Hannah asked. She showed Mabel the slip of parchment.

‘Well, now, that certainly looks like my handwriting. But I don’t remember writing that. Not at all,’ Mabel said. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘I found it in my mother’s desk,’ Hannah told her. ‘You must remember her; she was killed in the Square outside.’

Mabel Lane’s face fell. ‘Killed in the Square? You’re _her_ daughter? Well, I definitely didn’t know _her_. You don’t want to be asking questions around here, girl. Ask questions and _he’ll_ find out. And then you’ll be in a barrowload of trouble.’ Mabel looked warily out through the dirty window towards the Parkinson Warehouse.

‘Who killed her?’ Hannah asked. ‘Do you know?’

Mabel Lane shook her head. ‘Even if I did, I would never tell,’ said the elderly witch. ‘You know what they say: “Never cross a Parkinson”. You’ll never prove anything. The Law Office has been after young Piers Parkinson for years, and they’ve never made anything stick. What chance do you have?’

‘I can do it. Hard work and patience will get me there in the end,’ Hannah said.

‘You’ll get no help from me, girl. I don’t want to end up like your mother. Just get out of here and forget all about it. It’s the safest thing to do.’ Mabel Lane shooed Hannah from the shop.

* * *

The following evening, Hannah arrived at the Leaky Cauldron a good two hours before she was due to meet Gabe Willis. Auror Aloysius Webb was already there. She’d gone straight from Knockturn Alley to the Ministry and had told Al Webb everything she’d discovered. He’d immediately left to carry out further investigations.

‘You did a really good job yesterday, Hannah,’ Al Webb began hesitantly. Hannah could sense the “but” coming.

‘I’ve checked up on your story, and I’ve found out a little more, but not much. I’ve had a long chat with Magical Law Enforcement, too.’

‘And?’ Hannah asked impatiently. Auror Webb was not the fastest of talkers.

‘Chelsea Boyle has vanished. She went straight from the Witch Weekly offices to Gringotts and closed her account. It took me a while, because the goblins hate being helpful to the Aurors, but they eventually told me that Miss Boyle deposited two hundred Galleons into her account the day before your mother was killed. I suspect that…’

‘That she was bribed to intercept the article,’ said Hannah.

Auror Webb nodded.

‘A few of the people I’ve spoken to have hinted that the Halstead brothers were using Muggle slaves. I’ve checked; if they were, they certainly aren’t now. The local Law Office thinks that Parkinson was behind the racket. They say that he controls a lot of the illegal trade in Knockturn Alley, but they’ve never been able to prove it,’ Al Webb continued.

‘What about Mabel Lane?’ Hannah asked.

‘She has never met your mother; she is certain of that.’ Al Webb looked around and lowered his voice. ‘I even slipped her some Veritaserum, Hannah. I’m certain that she’s telling the truth.’

‘She can’t be!’ Hannah protested. ‘She wrote that note.’

‘She doesn’t know anything.’ said Al Webb, looking grim. ‘I asked her several questions about other things which happened at about the same time your mother died. There are gaps in her memory, some of them are very large gaps.’

‘She’s been Obliviated!’ Hannah hissed. ‘Can you undo it?’

‘I’ve spoken to the Obliviators; I’ve a friend in Obliviator Headquarters, he took a look at her for me. He said no, not without destroying the old lady’s mind. I’m sorry; as I said, you’ve done a great job, Hannah, but we’ve hit another wall. Even if Parkinson was behind your mother’s murder, he won’t have done it himself; he’ll have hired someone, probably through several intermediaries…’

‘You’re giving up again, aren’t you?’ said Hannah.

‘Not giving up, no,’ said Webb. ‘I’m waiting for fresh leads. But I do _not_ want you to go off playing the junior detective again, Hannah. These are very dangerous people. I want you to promise me that you’ll stop this, please. Think of your father, I don’t want to have to tell him that you’ve been found dead in an alley, or worse. I have a daughter a little older than you and I can say with certainty that would be any father’s nightmare, believe me.’

Hannah pursed her lips, but said nothing.

‘Please?’ the Auror begged.

‘I won’t go asking questions in Knockturn Alley, or Knowe Place,’ said Hannah.

‘That will have to do, I suppose,’ said Webb. ‘Take care of yourself, young lady, and please be careful. These are dangerous times.’

Al Webb looked over to the bar. The pub was packed. There was a crowd four deep at the bar, all shouting for service. ‘I’d offer to buy you a Butterbeer, but it will take old Tom about half an hour to serve me. This place is usually quiet. The only time it’s this busy is at Christmas, but you’d think that he’d get someone in to help him, wouldn’t you?’

Hannah looked around the dingy pub. It desperately needed a clean. Webb was right; at the rate the toothless old barman was working, he’d take forever to serve everyone. But the place could be so much more. It had plenty of bedrooms, a decent kitchen, and it was the main entry into Diagon Alley. It should be a gold mine, but instead, most people simply passed through without stopping, en route to Diagon Alley.

Hannah looked again at the shouting scrum at the bar. It was also a great place for gossip and rumour. She pushed through the crowd, ducked under the counter flap and stood behind the bar. This was just like the café except there was a bar counter between her and the customers. Given the boisterousness of the customers, that was probably no bad thing.

‘I’m Hannah; I’m your new barmaid,’ she told Tom. ‘You’re going to pay me twelve Sickles an hour.’

‘Are you seventeen, lass?’ Tom asked.

‘I’m almost eighteen,’ Hannah told him, hoping she sounded more confident than she was. _My eighteenth birthday is only twenty months away, so I’m not lying, not exactly_ , she assured herself.

Tom shrugged. ‘Ten Sickles an hour, if you’re any good,’ he told her.

‘I’m worth eleven at least,’ Hannah told him.

‘Yeah,’ someone shouted. ‘Pay her eleven, you stingy old sod.’ A cacophony of voices shouted their agreement.

‘Huh,’ Tom grunted. ‘Ten sickles an hour, eleven if you’re any good.’

Hannah looked along the bar. ‘Right, who’s next?’ she asked. Dozens of hands thrust money towards her.

* * *

A week later, late in the evening, Hannah stretched and yawned. It was approaching midnight; she’d be up in six hours to make her dad his breakfast. She looked around the bar; it was a lot tidier. Hannah had chased and chivvied the only cleaning-witch in the place, and had finally—under threat of sacking—got the woman to do a decent job. The bar was finally clean and tidy. The place was still dingy, although the Christmas decorations helped.

Hannah had been working twelve hour days, and consequently, her Gringotts account was healthier than it had ever been. She’d made a few useful contacts, too; there were a several less-than-savoury types frequenting the pub, and she was beginning to pick up snippets of gossip about Piers Parkinson. She didn’t ask direct questions, she simply asked the occasional stupid one and allowed the gossipers to correct her ignorance. It might take weeks, or months, or even years, but she was a Hufflepuff; she was patient and hard-working, and she would get there in the end.


End file.
